Fantasia
by D3athz-C4lling
Summary: Arthur was dead...yet he appears before Alfred time and time again. Just how long can Alfred hold onto his sanity before he too, joins Arthur on the other side?
1. Dusk

**A/N:** I really wish there was a T+ rating...because I don't think this fic is that intense to be rated M, at least in my opinion. I wasn't very sure what genre this fell under...it's a combination of Supernatural/Horror/Tragedy/Drama/Angst...Also, because I'm ignorant, can someone please answer these two questions I have: Why should the fact that human names are used in a fic be considered a warning? And is it etiquette to reply to reviews? (Because I don't want to bother you guys with my unworthiness if it isn't needed)

**Warning: **AU-ish, because of what goes on in Alfred's head (my textbook says that every individual's mind is a small universe of its own...if that counts...), swearing, human names used, character deaths, violence, gore...and more gore (hey that rhymes), angsty/insane!Alfred (and everything in between)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

**Fantasia** (n) – a hallucination; something unreal, exotic, **grotesque**

* * *

"I think you've had enough…" Alfred F. Jones commented to his drinking partner.

"What're you talking about!...I'm perfectly fine!" Arthur Kirkland retorted. "Don't you start patronizing me…you ungrateful git!"

"Can you even stand up straight?"

"Of course I can! What kinda…stupid question is that?" the Englishman snapped.

With an unamused look on his face, Alfred watched as right after Arthur stood up from his stool, he swayed to and fro, tipping the mug of beer he was holding and spilling some of its contents onto the floor. When he was convinced that the ground was moving beneath him, Arthur threw himself onto the countertop for support. By now, the two blondes were getting odd and annoyed looks from the people around them. Alfred sunk a bit lower in his stool as some held their gaze. But he had to admit that watching the drunk next to him and his antics was something worth his own embarrassment…for only so long…

"We…should go," he finally suggested.

"What! Already?" Arthur said in a voice that was louder than necessary. "We're goin' bloody nowhere!"

"What I meant was…I think we've had enough drinks in this bar-I mean pub…We should hop over to another one…" Alfred desperately offered.

"That's actually a good idea ya have there for once! I knew I raised ya right…!" Arthur slurred and staggered out to their car, Alfred right behind him to catch him if he fell.

Alfred clearly remembered how this disastrous situation came to be. It has been exactly one month since the two have reconciled to heal old wounds. For this "anniversary", Alfred decided they should celebrate. Surprisingly enough, Arthur complied, on a couple of conditions. The first was no fast food restaurants, the second, no horrible movies. These really forced the American's hand, leaving the Englishman to decide for them. Alfred thought this was unfair, but the fact that Arthur actually agreed to go along with one of his suggestions was a conquest of its own.

"I'll drive," Alfred insisted, grabbing the keys from his pocket and opening the door.

"Ahahaha! Very funny, Alfred. It's my SUV…and I know my way around here better than you!" he pointed out loftily.

With the alcohol in his bloodstream, Alfred couldn't quite come up with something to go against the other blonde. He also didn't want to stand around arguing with the drunk…for they can always do that when he's sober. Against his better judgment, Alfred heaved a sigh before dropping the keys into Arthur's hand. To the American's surprise, Arthur was able to stay on the road the whole time without swerving.

_I guess there's nothing to worry about…_

For some odd reason, it started to rain. But because of the alcohol already in his system, Arthur didn't seem to notice the vision in front of him becoming blurry. Alfred, tipsy himself, simply looked out to the side window to see the empty streets blend in with the darkness all around them.

"You know Alfred," Arthur spoke up after a comfortable silence. "You have no idea how much I-"

"Arthur! The road-" before he was able to finish the sentence, or even before Arthur whirled his head to look, time skipped a frame.

"_Let's go home." Arthur suggested, extending his hand to a young and bright-eyed boy. The boy beamed a warm smile at the Englishman and reached to grab the offered hand. The two turned towards the sunlit path and walked hand-in-hand._

_Alfred…_

Staring in front of him, Alfred quickly realized that they missed the curve and hit a weeping willow on the side of the road. Aside from the few glass shards that pierced his skin and his own glasses crushed, he was able to slowly drag himself upright from the dashboard.

The car horn was blaring in the background, but no movement in the driver's seat. Alfred started to fear the worse. Kicking the heavy door open until it practically fell off of its hinges and crashed to the ground, the American ran to the other side of the massive vehicle. The headlights were flickering rapidly before being engulfed by the night. As the window glass crunched beneath his feet, Alfred couldn't help but gag as he approached the body.

_Dear God…this can't be happening…_

The door to the driver's seat was gnarled and ajar, slowly screeching open to reveal the passenger still sitting in front of the wheel…or rather, compressed. Wedged between steering wheel and seat, Arthur's head rested on top of the wheel, the air bags obviously failing to deploy. The seat seemed to have slide forward from its original position because of the impact of the crash, squishing Arthur in between. His chest was practically pressed up against the center of the wheel, causing the car horn to send its miserable cry. Other than the midsection, his limbs were able to move freely, arm swinging lazily from side to side and eventually coming to a complete stop.

"Oh my God! Arthur…just hang in there!" Alfred shouted over the sheets of rain. The bottom of the steering wheel impaled itself into Arthur's abdomen, allowing intestines and innards to gush forth, collecting into a colorful mess of crimson, pink, and purple on the Englishman's lap. Broken ribs protruded from haphazard sections of his sides, producing holes in the dark green military coat, blood dripping off of the splintered bones.

"No…no…Arthur…just hold on…please…!" Alfred heard himself saying over and over again. Out of desperation, the American tried stuffing the contents on Arthur's lap back inside the gash. But during the process, his fingers only widened the wound, allowing a pool of crimson and innards to cascade down from the seat to mix with the rain on the road. Bare hands now sticky with the Englishman's blood, he then tried to pry the body from its place between wheel and seat. But he was stuck-fast, and if Alfred pulled any harder on the man's slacks, he might only get the bottom half of Arthur out of the vehicle.

As it began to rain harder, lightning cracked from the black sky above while gray sheets of fog rose from the ground below, lingering and wrapping itself around the two as if to whisk them away. It was such a sickly fitting scene.

With both knees in the pool of blood beneath him, Alfred knew. No matter what deity he prayed to, Death has already claimed Arthur. Alfred could only place his head on his friend's tainted lap and sob loudly, his cries drowned out by the cold, sad rain. It wasn't the blood or guts that traumatized Alfred the most, but the way Arthur stared at him with glazed-over eyes, mouth agape as if to finish his sentence.


	2. 1st Night

_Not fair…it's not fair…_Alfred thought to himself during the funeral. Here he was, almost physically unscathed by the accident, while the remains of Arthur lay right in front of him in a sealed coffin.

Death is a very simple concept. Even the aloof Feliciano Vargas who attended the funeral expressed his grief and cried. In a rare display of public affection, Ludwig held the trembling brunette in his arms, silently wishing that the same fate would not happen to the Italian and him.

"Arthur…y-you jerk…" Alfred heard Peter Kirkland hiccup while futilely trying to hide the tears running down his red cheeks.

Realizing that his long-time rival was no longer alive, Francis Bonnefoy never once looked straight at the coffin. Like everybody else, he kept his head down.

Unlike everybody else, Alfred kept his head up facing the coffin; staring at the black case until it was lowered into the ground and buried out of sight. During the whole procession, he remained dry-eyed.

_This isn't happening…it's not! Whose funeral am I at?_

Even with the death of Arthur, this was not enough to postpone the world conference from proceeding that very same day. No one showed much enthusiasm, and everything was in order. Although everyone knew why the meeting had to be held, Ludwig reminded them for the sake of breaking the unusual silence.

"I know that no one wants to be here right now…not after what recently happened…but there have been too many setbacks to keep postponing this crucial meeting," Surprised to hear his own voice for once echo in the large room, the German cleared his throat before continuing. "For example, the meeting was postponed for a week because of Toris's severe injury…and three days more because of Ivan's…suicide-"

"I always knew that Russian was crazy enough to kill himself!" Gilbert Beilschmidt muttered under his breath, earning a warning glance from his brother.

Although everyone didn't want to admit it, many were relieved that Ivan was no longer with them. This was shown when barely a single tear was shed at the Russian's funeral. Eduard Von Bock and Raivis Galante expressed the most "gratitude" from the event, their oppression from said Russian finally lifted. The Estonian and Latvian's only regret was that it came at the hefty price of their fellow Baltic brother.

"I'm afraid we must continue without them present…" Ludwig finished, addressing the four empty seats around the table.

As the meeting went on without interruption, Francis hoped to bring back some normalcy to the atmosphere by groping Alfred. The American didn't even blink from the contact, remaining still in his seat and looking distantly at the papers in front of him. Dissatisfied, the Frenchman could do nothing but try to concentrate on what Ludwig was saying. Although, that failed as well and he was eventually lost in his own thoughts. At least that aspect of the meeting was still kept intact.

* * *

"Where the hell am I?" Alfred snapped when a large manor was in his sight.

Taking a moment to survey the area around him, aside from the mysterious structure in front of him, there was only snow. The frozen wasteland stretched toward the horizon while the only sound to be heard was wind raking through the bare branches of trees sparsely scattered around the manor. The cloudless sky was an oddity of its own – no stars poked holes of light into the black blanket above. The only way Alfred was able to see the manor in the first place was because of the full moon floating in the sky, acting like a pupil-less eye watching over him.

"What kind of-" sapphire eyes stopped scanning and instead fixated on a figure approaching the entrance of the manor. "A-Arthur!"

The Englishman didn't appear to have heard him and continued to walk right through the double doors.

"Damn it Arthur, wait!" the American hollered as he physically barged into the manor, eyes frantic.

Right in front of him on the other side of the room with his back turned to Alfred, Arthur was in a hallway that opened up to the left and right. During this moment, Alfred was able to make quick observations on the person before him. He was…alive…walking without a limp. His uniform was clean and pressed; no blood, bone, or bowels in sight…as if the accident never happened. Unlike Alfred, whose footsteps echoed along the hallway, Arthur's were muted; his boots didn't even make contact with the wooden floor.

"Can't you hear me? Please turn around Arthur…" Upon reaching the intersection where the deceased was in the hallway, despite how well Alfred focused his eyes on the apparition, Arthur disappeared without a trace. "Fuck!" Alfred swore in frustration, punching the aged wall with so much force that a radial dent was left in it. Looking from left to right, there was no telling which way the Englishman went.

_God…why couldn't have you taken me instead…?_

* * *

"Arthur!" Alfred shouted, arm outstretched towards the ceiling of his bedroom. Upon realizing where he was, it was strange how he shuddered beneath his blanket like he'd been out in a snowstorm.

_A…a dream? _

With this in mind, his arm lowered to brush off the stray tears running down his cheeks. "I…I'm sorry…" he sobs.

The soft pattering on the window indicated that it was raining outside; it never let up since the night of the accident.

As it was a habit, Alfred eventually got out from bed to get a late night snack…or was it already daybreak? Looking out at the window situated at the bottom of the staircase, Alfred noticed that the sun was peeping over the horizon, sunlight barely breaking through lines of clouds and painting the sky a gray color varying in value.

Slumping down into the wooden chair in the kitchen, Alfred stared at the steak and hamburger meal as if not knowing what to do next. Normally, the American would attack his hamburgers at once, but his appetite was dulled by a guilty feeling in his stomach, and Alfred found it hard to get his mouth around any of the items on the plate. A few moments passed before he concluded that the snack was merely too big and needed to be cut to smaller pieces. With much effort, Alfred heaved himself off his seat and went over to grab a knife. Upon looking at the utensil, he loathed the person whose face was on the reflection of the blade.

_This is all my fault…if only I didn't-_

His thoughts were interrupted when Alfred felt the knife break the skin on his left wrist and a scarlet rivulet encircled his forearm. As the blood gathered onto the kitchen counter near the sink and trickle down to the white-tiled floor, Alfred couldn't help but smirk.

_This is nothing compared to the pain Arthur felt…_

Digging the blade deeper into flesh, Alfred hissed as he twisted the knife to widen the wound. Blood bubbled and gushed from the gash as Alfred stared at it in awe. After which, he used the utensil like a spoon to try and scoop up some of the flesh that was being torn apart. When this didn't really work out, he kept pushing the knife into his wrist until it went right through and the tip of the blade landed on the marble countertop on the other side.

_Still not enough…_

Abandoning the tainted cutting knife, the blonde pulled it out of his wrist and tossed the utensil into the sink. He then dragged himself back upstairs to his bedroom.

_I've failed him…_

Trudging towards the bedside stand, Alfred pulled out a loaded hand pistol from one of the drawers.

_But if I sleep…I'll see him again in my dreams…_

In front of the vanity mirror, he pointed the gun at himself. The pale light pouring into the bedroom window threw an ugly shadow to the side of him.

_I want to see him just one more time…_

Looking at his reflection for the last time, Alfred saw himself wearing a crooked smile. "Ivan, I think we've finally agreed on something…death really is the only escape from our own madness."

_I want to sleep forever…_


	3. 2nd Night

"Alfred! What do you think you're doing?" Matthew Williams yelled as he practically tripped over himself trying to reach his brother. The younger was able to swat Alfred's hand at the same time he pulled the trigger. This caused the pistol to miss its target and instead graze across the side of the American's head. The bullet embedded itself in the opposite wall. When the sound of the shot faded into silence, Alfred slowly turned toward Matthew, the question of why he wasn't dead yet in his jaded sapphire eyes. Matthew didn't even pay heed to the inquiring eyes and instead used the moment of confusion to wrench the pistol out of Alfred's hand.

"Would you like to do the honors instead?" Alfred quipped, offering the Canadian a weak smile. When shock etched itself onto Matthew's features, he challenged "Go ahead, kill me."

"Like hell I will!" Matthew snapped, pocketing the small firearm into his tan winter coat. There really was nothing more he could say at the moment. Surely Alfred was perturbed after what had happened…but for his personality to be so out of kilter…

"Then why are you here?" the older asked flatly, obviously disappointed in the turn of events. "How did you even get in here?"

Matthew kept quiet, his attention more on Alfred's left wrist than his questions. Blood still flowed from the cut, slithering across his palm and spiraling down the fingers until it trickled onto the wooden floor in tiny crimson orbs. "What did you do to yourself? Doesn't it hurt?"

Trailing his gaze to the bloodied wrist, Alfred simply shrugged. "Not really," choosing to ignore the first question.

Matthew left the bedroom and returned just as quickly with a first-aid kit in hand he got from the bathroom. Seating Alfred on the edge of the bed, the Canadian proceeded to bandaging the gash as best he could. "I know you're not being yourself lately, so I thought I'd check up on you…but I never thought it would be this bad,"

"That doesn't really explain how you were able to find me in my bedroom…" Alfred stated quietly, shamefaced.

Not taking his violet eyes off the injured arm, Matthew answered rather harshly "As if leaving the front door unlocked wasn't bad enough, you left a bloody trail to follow from the kitchen," with a final tug on the bandages, the Canadian stepped back from his handy work. The white cloth immediately dyed crimson wherever the wound touched it.

Alfred examined the area himself with vague interest, pressing his thumb into the patched wound in hopes of spurting more blood onto the bandage.

"Eh? Quit that!" Matthew quickly chided, holding onto Alfred's uninjured wrist. "We need to get it stitched up. Let's go to the hos-"

"I want to visit Arthur's grave."

Matthew was appalled at Alfred's sudden and irrational request. "No Alfred, we're going to the hospital first,"

"I want to see Arthur first," the American retorted, his gloomy eyes filled with childish obstinacy.

_If he sees Arthur's grave now…he'll definitely try to…and succeed…_Matthew had to think fast.

"You may want to see Arthur, but does he want to see you?" the Canadian questioned, knowing that the only way to make Alfred think otherwise was to use the very subject he cared about against him. A low blow, but it just showed how desperate the situation was. When Alfred responded with a cocked eyebrow, Matthew continued "Have you seen yourself in the mirror, Alfred? Arthur would not want your blood dripping on his grave or see you looking like a wreck,"

"…I guess…" the American conceded, lacking the tenacity he once had.

"Don't worry; we'll visit him as soon as your stitches heal. Plus, we can visit Toris while we're there at the hospital." Matthew added softly.

Alfred only nodded to indicate that he was listening and walked past Matthew to retrieve his leather bomber jacket thrown carelessly on a chair next to the drawer. The two brothers descended the staircase, Matthew careful not to get his boots in the small pools of Alfred's blood; Alfred, on the other hand, looked like he was purposely stepping into the crimson ponds with his bare feet, leaving red footprints in his wake. Matthew shuddered at the sight, but said nothing as his brother covered his feet with white socks, instantly turning them red as well and lacing up his boots.

The trip to the hospital was nothing out of the ordinary, but Matthew couldn't help but throw quick glances at Alfred as he drove down the early morning highway. For his part, Alfred said nothing during the entire trip. All he did was look out the window, wincing or fidgeting every time they went by a tree.

It didn't take long for Alfred to receive medical attention, seeing as though by the time they got to the hospital, Alfred's bandages were soaked with blood, some of it dripping on the hospital grounds. When asked how such an injury occurred on his wrist, Matthew offered that it was a freak accident. The staff believed the story enough, and told Alfred not to exert himself too much and rest. Before exiting the infirmary, Matthew and Alfred stopped by the room Toris resided in, finding that another person was already there. Feliks Lukasiewicz sat next to the unconscious Lithuanian, holding his hand firmly. The Pole didn't even notice the twins' presence until the two were right next to him on the edge of the bed.

"Alfred? Like, what happened to your arm?" Feliks asked, pointing at the American's wrist.

"How is Toris doing?" Alfred tilted his head toward the figure in the bed, trying to avoid the question thrown at him.

"He's not waking up!...He's still in a coma…" the blonde answered, tightening his grip on his friend's hand.

Toris Lorinaitis lay unmoving on the hospital bed; the only sign of life was his heartbeat being monitored on a screen. Although, the brunette looked like he would have been better off dead. The injuries inflicted on him were so severe that the doctors had to assist him with his uniform still intact. The hand not being held by Feliks had fingers bent in unimaginable angles; the middle one forming a zigzag line while the thumb lacked a nail, revealing raw, red flesh beneath. Cuts ran along the Lithuanian's body, indicated only by the tears and frays of the material of the uniform and dried blood underneath. Injuries from the size of a needle, probably puncture wounds, to lacerations adorned Toris's legs, torso, and arms. Only his face and neck were spared from the carnage.

"My god…what happened to him?" Matthew spoke up.

Feliks gave him that look that showed he wasn't really sure who the Canadian was but answered him nonetheless. "Another one of Ivan's bout of insanity…but this time he went too far damn it! He must have known that too and killed himself…that bastard took the easy way out," the Pole paused to wipe a hot tear running down his already wet cheek. "If he was still alive, I would have totally killed him myself!" Although with his accent, those words carried weight when Feliks finished the statement with a scowl, green eyes darkening with anger.

"He's awake!" Alfred exclaimed, running to the other side of the bed to get a better look at Toris's face.

"What are you talking about? This is like, totally not funny, Alfred,"

"But I just saw him open his eyes! He was mouthing something-"

"Alfred, Toris hasn't moved a bit…" the other blonde retorted, looking at the brunette with scrutiny. "He hasn't opened his eyes since he arrived at the hospital."

Matthew peered at the American worryingly as he backed away from the bed, muttering that he must have been seeing things. "We should get going now, Alfred's stitches took longer than I thought and it's getting late. What about you, Feliks?"

"I'm gonna stay a bit longer," the Pole replied, giving his full attention back to the one lying on the bed.

X.X.X.X

When they returned to Alfred's house, the sun has already disappeared behind dark clouds. Matthew made them a quick dinner of pancakes and offered Alfred a bottle of maple syrup along with a plastic fork and knife. "Would you also like coffee?" the Canadian suggested, trying to make Alfred forget about the stitches on his wrist.

The American looked up from his arm and nodded.

"Alright, and don't play with those stitches eh," Matthew reminded before retreating into the kitchen to make the coffee. When he was sure Alfred couldn't see him, Matthew whipped out a bottle from his coat pocket and took out a couple of anti-depressants from it to place into Alfred's drink. He waited until the capsules sunk to the bottom of the dark drink before coming back into the living room to give his brother the mug.

"The coffee tastes weird," Alfred commented.

"That's because, you didn't put anything in it," Matthew hesitantly replied, not expecting the American to have such a keen sense of taste.

Alfred half-shrugged, looking back at his left wrist again.

"You should go to bed Alfred," Matthew spoke up, again trying to divert Alfred's attention from the wound. "The doctors insisted that you do," he added when Alfred showed signs of protest. "I'll clean your mess up just this once, so you can repay me by going to sleep."

Alfred's mouth twitched into a small smile for just a second before he got up from the chair and ascended the staircase, Matthew's amethyst eyes watching him.

* * *

"What? Here again…?" Alfred opened his eyes, only to see the looming manor in the desolate snow. No one answered him but the howling of the wind. Bewildered, it took the American an additional second to remember what happened here before.

_Arthur…_

Closing the distance between himself and the manor, Alfred once again entered through the double metal doors of the entrance. There must have been an odd mechanism in the doors, because right after Alfred went through them, the doors swung close with a hollow thud. Brushing off the snow on his brown bomber jacket, for the first time Alfred took note of his surrounding in the manor. He was in a living room devoid of any furniture. The fireplace has long burned out, ashes scattered among where the logs would have been burning. The walls were stained with smudges and smears varying between copper and red; some blotches even formed hand and fingerprints. A distinguishing trail of crimson ran along all four walls of the room, as if a child ran along the side with a crayon and into the hallway ahead. Only the moonlight lit the entire manor through the slits of the wooden window shutters. They seemed to be blinking at him whenever the wind ran through them, flipping the individual blinds up and down. Walking up to the destination where he last saw Arthur, Alfred couldn't help but stare at the wall in front of him.

_Didn't I make a dent there?_

Running a gloved hand over the pale wall, Alfred couldn't feel a single crack or indication that he ever punched the wall the last time he was there.

"_It's my fault…_"

"Who's there?" Alfred whirled around. There was nothing but the empty hallway, and beyond that the shutters continued to blink at him.

"_The pain won't go away…_"

Panic setting into him, Alfred ran back into the living room, only to find that the metal doors wouldn't budge.

"_Make…make it stop…_"

"Damn it!" Alfred shouted in frustration, giving up on the door after manhandling it and running back down the hall to find another exit. All the while the voice floated and repeated pleas for help. Taking a right turn at the intersection, Alfred rounded another corner and came across a wooden door that was slightly cracked open. The voice was louder there, and from where Alfred was standing, he could see a crouched figure. "Arthur! Is that you?" he yelled, catching sight of a green uniform as he slowly approached the door. When there was no response from the other side except for the incessant muttering, Alfred mustered what was left of his courage and stepped into the room. Horror-stricken, it took Alfred a few moments to find his voice. "T-Toris?"

The Lithuanian was huddled in a corner, his knees brought up to his scarred chest. He appeared to be weeping, unaware of the nauseating stench of his own blood all across the walls. "He'll find me…because it's all my fault…"

"What are you doing here? Who'll find you?"

"Feliks…Eduard…"

"Toris, answer me!" Alfred grabbed the brunette by the shoulders and shook him.

"Raivis…I'm sorry…" Toris continued to babble, keeping his head down.

"…"

"_Even after death, Ivan will continue to torment me…_" he muttered under his breath.

"What was tha-"

"Leave this place!" Toris hissed, snapping his head up and making eye contact with Alfred.

Stunned by the response, Alfred tried to back away from the huddled figure when a bleeding and broken hand grabbed his wrist. Gnarled fingers wrapped itself around the American's left wrist, making him grunt in pain. "That hurts! Let go Toris," After prying the hand off, a ring of blood was left around his sleeve. "What has gotten into you?" he questioned after examining the stitches.

"He's here!" Toris screeched.

Spinning around, Alfred saw nothing but the stained and cracked walls. "What are you-" when he turned back to face Toris, the brunette wasn't there…just a puddle of red took his place.

"Hello there, Alfred~"

He cringed at the sound of his name being called. Almost not wanting to turn around, he did so slowly to see a certain Russian gaze down at him. Ivan Braginski stood before Alfred, his violet eyes cold and frozen deep. The blonde did everything he could to prevent himself from gagging from the smell of decay suddenly pervading the small room.

"Have you seen my Toris?" Ivan asked, ignoring the disgusted reaction of the American.

"He's not yours," Alfred managed to say, covering his nose.

"Oh? Even after all I did just for him?" the Russian replied, pointing at the bullet wound on his head. Above his right ear was a mess of brain matter and skull fragments entangled with platinum-blonde hair. The center of the wound welled with so much blood that it turned black. "So why are you here, Alfred? Would you and Arthur like to stay here with me?"

Fear turned to rage at the sound of his deceased friend's name. "What do you know about Arthur? Why is he here? You'd better not lay a hand on him or I'll fucking make sure you experience another death you bastard!"

Ivan's cheerful expression grimaced at this, his amethyst eyes losing its childish spark and replaced with quiet rage. "What a shame," he mumbled, raising his water pipe well over his head and sending it down on Alfred.


	4. 3rd Night

"Get away from me!" Alfred shouted as his arms went up to protect himself against the descending metal pipe.

Opening his eyes when the blow never came, Alfred realized he was back in his bedroom. He was already sitting up on his bed without knowing it, but when he got out, there was a stinging pain on his right arm. Thinking nothing of it, Alfred went downstairs where his brother was already preparing them breakfast. As he had promised, Matthew cleaned the stairwell as well as kitchen floor, evident by the smell of hydrogen peroxide still lingering in the air. Alfred watched from the doorway of the kitchen and noticed that not a sharp utensil was in sight; the meal from yesterday precut into bite-sized pieces. Sensing that he was being watched, Matthew turned around and gave Alfred a warm smile, gesturing him to have a seat. Alfred muttered a 'thank you' before taking his seat and a sip of his coffee. It still tasted odd, but Alfred didn't bother to bring it up again, for there was a more pressing matter.

"Is it normal to have the same dream twice?" Alfred asked aloud, knowing that the Canadian sitting on the opposite side of the table was listening.

"Sometimes, there may be meaning behind them," Matthew answered, not much of an interpreter. "Mind telling me what you dreamt about?"

"I was in the middle of nowhere basically, surrounded by snow. There was a mansion of some sort before me…and I saw Arthur enter it…there was also Ivan…am I seeing ghosts?" Alfred asked fearfully.

"It was just a dream, I'm sure it's normal to dream about those who have recently died,"

_It's just probably the side effects of the anti-depressants._

Contemplating over the offered explanation, Alfred finally dug into his breakfast with his plastic fork.

_Good, at least some of his appetite is back._

There was moment of comfortable silence between them until Alfred froze in place, the fork half-way up toward his mouth. "But wait! I saw Toris in the manor too. He's unconscious but not dead…we have to visit him now!"

"Eh, this early? Are you sure-hey wait," Matthew stuttered, already seeing Alfred exit the front door.

In the car, Matthew still insisted that he drives for fear that Alfred may want to commit suicide with him still in the vehicle. Once at the hospital, Alfred was about enter the door to Toris's room when a staff went through it first, pushing a metal cart into the room with a large black bag on top. Heavy sobs were heard inside the room along with maddening shrieks.

"NO! He can't be dead damn it…that's totally impossible!" the twins heard Feliks scream at the staffs who were preparing to send Toris's body to the morgue. "Just how the fuck did he die? He was in a coma!"

"R-respiratory failure…" the doctor tried to explain calmly to the Pole. "Apparently he wasn't breathing even though we placed an oxygen mask on him,"

A small squeak came from Matthew, but Alfred was already next to the brunette's body wide-eyed.

"Can you at least like, give us some time before taking his body away?"

Exasperated, the doctor nodded and signaled the assistants to leave, closing the door behind him.

Feliks continued to hold onto the Lithuanian's limp hand, saying a prayer beneath his breath.

Matthew silently went next to the weeping blonde, placing a supportive hand on his shaking shoulders.

One look at Toris, and Alfred saw that his whole body was covered with fresh lacerations, bruises, and blood. His neck and face now marred with scars, the sight caused Alfred's left wrist and right arm to burn. Alfred gave his right arm a squeeze before asking "Shouldn't we clean the blood?"

"What blood, Alfred?"

"The one…" the American stopped himself when he looked back at Toris, corpse becoming pale and frigid…but not bleeding.

"I-I saw it! He was bleeding from the neck!"

"There's nothing there."

"My dream…"

"Was just a dream," Matthew completed for him. "And shouldn't be taken seriously."

During the twins' exchange, Feliks remained silent, tuning the brothers out. His light-green eyes fixated on his best friend.

"We're being rude, please excuse us Feliks." Matthew left, a distressed Alfred behind him.

"So…explain how this relates to your dream," Matthew requested, trying to test his patience.

Perking up from his seat, Alfred responded immediately "I saw Toris in my dream just last night, he was mumbling something and didn't even talk to me when I asked him what he was doing there. You said that I dream of the _dead_…so…" the American slowed, trying to find the right words for his conclusion.

"You thought Toris was dead, and you were right," the Canadian finished.

Alfred acknowledged the statement, looking at Matthew. "What does this mean? I really am seeing ghosts aren't I?"

"Just coincidence," Matthew assured, never taking his eyes off the road. "Nothing more than coincidence." He repeated more to himself than his brother.

X.X.X.X

"Coincidence…no such thing as ghosts…" Alfred whispered to himself in bed. Although not much has happened that day, Alfred felt exhausted and went to bed without Matthew having to tell him to. His eyelids may feel heavy, but his mind remained reeling. "Dream…of the dead…" he kept telling himself before drifting off to sleep.

_But if that manor houses the dead, why am I there?_

* * *

"_He'll find me…_"

Alfred was familiar with this: Toris was still in the manor. He will get answers from the Lithuanian this time. From the dreary living room, Alfred retraced his footsteps from last night to the equally dreary room where Toris huddled himself in its corner. "Toris, let me ask you a few-" when he actually saw the brunette, Alfred had to look away abruptly, preferring to stare at the blood-stained floor.

Toris heard his name, and looked up in Alfred's direction. This action shouldn't have frightened Alfred, but the fact that the white parts of Toris's eyes were black made him falter.

"Al…fred?" Toris choked out, blood gushing from the slit on his throat after every syllable. Aside from his neck, the rest of the wounds on him reopened and began to dye the carpeted floor a darker shade of scarlet.

"W-where are we?" Alfred tried to find his voice again. "Why are you here?"

Toris appeared shocked by these questions, looking at Alfred curiously. For the American, it was like staring into black holes, except for the forest-green orbs floating in the middle.

"You…don't…know?" Toris managed to cough out. Blood started to run down the edges of his pale bottom lip, trickling to the ground. "This is Ivan's house."

"…You need to get out of here,"

"But-"

"Now!" Alfred exclaimed as he yanked the Lithuanian to his feet. He then shoved the brunette through the door with some effort and continued to do so down the corridor. As he back-tracked, Alfred saw that on Toris's back was a lattice work of scars. He had to turn to the colorless wall to avoid throwing up on the spot. Although he knew better than to make Toris talk, Alfred couldn't stand the sound of his own shuffling feet. "So…every time I come here it's always dark, does the sun ever rise?" he asked when they were one turn away from the living room.

Toris shook his head. "Morning…will never…come…" he answered slowly and somberly.

"Well, we're here," Alfred stated, pushing the double doors open to reveal the snowfield ahead.

"There's…no…where to go…" the brunette said pessimistically.

"Anywhere…even nowhere, is better than here," Alfred responded, gently pushing Toris forward.

Cautiously, Toris took his first step outside, and then another, his boots soundlessly going over the snow. When Alfred didn't follow him, he looked back. "W-what about you?"

Alfred gave him a sad smile before answering. "There's someone else who needs saving."

As if on cue, the metal doors closed on him.


	5. 4th Night

"Alfred? Are you ready to go yet?" Matthew called up the stairs. "If we don't hurry, we'll be late for the funeral,"

"_Shut up!_"

"What? Are you still in the bathroom?" the Canadian started up the stairs.

"Like hell I'll tell you anything,"

_Alfred?_

"I don't know what you're talking about, so piss off!"

"You killed him didn't you? Fucking psycho…why!"

"You don't _own_ anything, you never did! You're dead now!"

"He's got nothing to do with this…leave him out of it!"

The bathroom door slammed open to reveal an infuriated Alfred. He completely ignored Matthew as he went downstairs to get his boots.

Confused at the same time a bit frightened by his brother's behavior, Matthew looked into the bathroom to see who Alfred was talking to. As he thought, no one was there.

Feliks may like many events to be extravagant, but a funeral was not one of them. He also hated long good-byes, so the Pole arranged Toris's funeral to be quick and concise. Only close friends and relatives were invited; with the exception of Matthew. Not that anyone noticed. As the priest finished his sermon and the coffin lowered into the ground one section away from Ivan's, Feliks broke down into tears.

"Don't worry about Toris anymore," Alfred tried to assure him. "I'm sure he'll be alright…he's free now."

"Yeah, right." Feliks snapped sarcastically.

X.X.X.X

"You know, you don't have to stay here if you don't want to," Alfred offered as the two sat down for lunch.

"What? And let you commit suicide?" Matthew joked. When Alfred obviously took the remark seriously, the blonde quickly added "I'll leave when you start acting like yourself again. You've seen two of your friends die; even someone like you needs time for these things."

"I'm fine!" Alfred objected half-heartedly. "You don't have to bother checking up on me all the time."

"You haven't said a word in the past few meetings, allowing Ludwig to lead. That's not like you." When Alfred's mouth opened but no words came out, Matthew continued "Although you're sleeping, it doesn't look like it's doing you any good,"

The American sunk back into his seat, crossing his arms and eyes down in defeat. This was the third time he lost to his brother in an argument.

"Kumajirou? Why are you out there? Come inside and get some lunch," Matthew said while lowering a plate of pancakes onto the kitchen floor.

The white polar bear shook his head, insisting on lying at the front door.

"That's weird; every time I visit you he seems to like staying outside of the house…"

"Speaking of the house," Alfred started, not liking where the conversation was going. "I really should thank you for fixing that bullet hole in my bedroom," he said with a mouthful of pancakes.

"I may have cleaned up most of the blood, but this isn't my house. I didn't step foot in your bedroom since that night," Matthew snorted.

"But I-" there was suddenly an overwhelming iron taste in his mouth. His tongue and the roof of his mouth felt sticky with the coagulating substance. And when he ran his tongue over his teeth, it only picked up more of the metal flavor. Looking back at his lunch, there was blood on his pancakes where the maple syrup should have been. The realization caused Alfred to stand abruptly, the wooden chair toppling to the floor.

"Alfred?" Matthew got up from his chair as well.

Dropping the bloodied fork, the addressed blonde ran to retch into the trashcan at the far end of the kitchen. "What the fuck did you put on the pancakes?" he managed to heave.

With a hurt and concerned look on his face, Matthew pointed out "It's only maple syrup."

"Since when did maple syrup taste like blood?" Alfred snapped after lifting his head up from the trashcan.

"Maple syrup isn't red!" Matthew retorted, a bit affronted by his brother's rude and perplexing comment. "And blood doesn't have an amber color," pointing towards Alfred's half-finished plate.

This didn't convince the American, when he looked back at his lunch, his sapphire eyes widened and his head was once again in the trashcan.

"My God Alfred, do you need to see the doctor again? Maybe I should stay over the night again eh…"

"No! You don't have to do anything," Alfred shook his head vehemently, not wanting his brother to label him anymore of a lunatic than he already was. "I…I just need some time alone."

"Are you sure? You look very pale…"

"Yes I'm sure, now _please_ leave." Alfred commanded as he practically shoved Matthew out through the door and locked it.

X.X.X.X

The sky was darkening, signaling the arrival of night. How Alfred hated the night. Ever since the accident, Alfred never had a single restful sleep where he didn't wake up shivering from chills caused by more than winter air. Alfred hated the fact that what happened to Arthur was an accident. He couldn't blame it on someone else and kill that person to make himself feel better. He could only blame himself. Perhaps seeing him in his dreams was a just form of punishment.

With these thoughts in mind, Alfred's eyes drifted to the streaks and blisters in the paint. The bullet hole was still there, splintering the white wall. He took a good look at the hole and even ran a finger across it before approaching his bed.

_I know I didn't see the bullet hole this morning! I'm not-_

When Alfred lifted his bed sheets to get ready to sleep, a pair of violet eyes met him. Panicking, Alfred pulled on the rest of the blanket, revealing Ivan's body lying on the bed. The Russian's face was contorted into a sick smile, his eyes keen and sharp, staring at him; as if he recently just died. The bullet wound in his head still ran with blood, and dripped off onto the pillowcase. The ends of the tan scarf around his neck snaked down and slithered across the floor. Alfred slept on the couch that night.

* * *

Alfred knew he was in the manor again. The thing was he didn't know exactly where in the manor. A small window revealed that he was on the second floor.

_I still have to find Arthur_

With that mindset, Alfred left the cramped room he was in and headed out to a corridor lined with many doors. Only at the very end of the long hallway was there light permeating from the blinking blinds. Concluding that that was a good starting point for his search, Alfred started toward the light. He was nearing yet another intersection of the hallway when he heard footfalls followed by someone weeping. A part of Alfred wanted to run away for fear that it could be Ivan. The other part wanted to run to it for hope that it could be Arthur. His indecisiveness led him to stay rigid where he was, heart racing as the footsteps got louder.

Natalia Arlovskaya appeared from the left side of the corridor, face buried in skeletal hands. The white bow was lopsided on her disheveled platinum-blonde hair. Her shoulders heaved deeply as she continued to weep, ignorant of Alfred's presence. It was only when Alfred yelped in horror and stumbled back did she raise her head to reveal sunken, jet-black eyes. Numb with fear from the eye contact, Alfred remained situated where he was on the floor boards holding his breath. The sickening smell of decay was once again present.

"Nata-" the name snagged in his throat.

Wiping away the blood staining her hollow eyes, Natalia peered at the American. Her emotionless expression quickly changed to one of rage. "It's all your fault, Toris!"

"What? Natalia it's me, Alfred!" the words tumbling out of his mouth.

"You made Ivan kill himself!" she accused, pointing a bony finger in Alfred's direction. "I'll make sure you pay for what you've done!"

When she was close enough, Alfred saw that the gash on her chest was rotting, exposing ribs and a purple heart weakly pumping despite a blade stuck in it. The tattered material of her navy blue dress fluttered as she approached the unmoving Alfred. It was just before the Belarusian got her hands around Alfred's neck that from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of green turn to the right side of the corridor.

"Arthur!" Alfred instantly got himself up on his feet and flitted toward the Englishman.

"I won't let you get away!" Natalia barked, pulling her knife out of her chest.

The hall seemed to stretch infinitely, one side adorned with doors and the other with window shutters. Arthur phased through a random door, Alfred following suit, making sure to close the door once he went through it. The small room he ended up in only led to more doors on each wall. Again, Arthur silently walked through the closed door to the right. With Natalia not far behind, Alfred didn't have time to question where Arthur was going but found himself trapped in a storage room. In a desperate attempt to protect himself, Alfred locked the door from the inside and stood stock-still and silent. As soon as he did that, he heard the other door from the outside swing open. From what he can gather, Natalia took a few steps forward to the center of the room before staying there.

"That bastard…he's gone…"

When he heard footsteps receding, Alfred let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding and slumped to the ground. But because of the shift in weight, the old floorboards creaked. The footsteps outside stopped, and Alfred can just imagine the Belarusian turning her head back. He said a mute prayer as the silence dragged on.


	6. 5th Night

**Useless A/N:** I didn't know people would actually fave and alert this story -tears up- Thank you all so much and to those who leave reviews, I bow down to you and you have my eternal gratitude. You guys encourage me to continue this story. Also, there's a small-not-worthy-to-be-called-easter egg in this chapter. Just wanted to throw that out there.

* * *

Alfred woke up in a cold sweat on the couch. When the old grandfather clock in the corner of the living room told him he was going to be late, Alfred got up on wobbly legs to get ready.

A world meeting was called for yet again. Alfred rested his head on his arms as the conference progressed, but paid particular attention when someone reported that her sister, Natalia, has gone missing.

"I understand that my sister was very upset after what happened to our dear Ivan, but when I went to check up on her, she was nowhere to be found in the house." Katyusha said over the hushed crowd.

Every member, even Eduard and Raivis, didn't know where she has gone, shaking their heads mutely in apology. Quiet murmur bubbled among the group.

"She's dead." Alfred said tersely. An iron curtain fell on the room, for that was the first time since the accident that Alfred has spoken in a meeting.

"Alfred…" Matthew whispered, peering worryingly at his brother.

"Out of all the things you could have said, it had to be something that brought a woman to tears," Francis broke the silence, addressing the Ukrainian with her glossy blue eyes.

Alfred lazily shifted his eyes to the Frenchman, saying "You don't have to believe me if you don't want to. Natalia stabbed herself through the chest to death." His voice was even and not loud like it normally was, but the silence of the room made his voice resonate nonetheless.

"And what proof do you have that she is dead?" Francis challenged.

"…I don't have any…" neglecting to mention the dream he had last night. Even he knew the evidence he held was ludicrous.

"Then we can't just assume what you say is true," Ludwig interceded.

Alfred simply shrugged. "Like I said, you don't have to believe what I'm saying is true. But since no one else seems to have an answer, I thought I'd provide one."

"This is outrageous!" Francis huffed. "Just because you're still sulking doesn't mean that you can prey on the misfortunes of others, Alfred."

A glare was sent Francis's way by the American, but he remained quiet.

"Get over yourself, it's unreasonable for you to sulk like this when you didn't even shed a single tear at Arthur's funeral!"

"What do you know?" Alfred thundered, standing up from his seat to face the Frenchman.

"I _know_ that you didn't visit Arthur's grave even once after he was buried. Stop trying to pretend that you care so much because in actuality-"

Francis could say no more, because the next thing he knew, he was being pulled by the collar by an enraged American.

"You know nothing…NOTHING of how it was like to watch Arthur die! YOU weren't the one trying to save him, stuffing his organs back into his body when there was no help for miles!" Alfred roared, shaking the other blonde like a rag doll.

Francis was speechless, chocking slightly from the iron grip Alfred had on him.

After locking eyes with the Frenchman, Alfred started to cackle. He laughed harder, his next words dipped in malice. "But you know what? Why don't I rip your intestines out and place it on your lap? You know, let you see what I saw with my own eyes…then you can tell me to stop sulking," his lips forming a depraved smile on his face. Cerulean eyes wide with fear stared at Alfred as Francis was hoisted into the air by the collar with Alfred's left arm.

"Let…go…"

"Who's complaining now?" Alfred sneered.

Sensing that their friend needed help, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and Gilbert tackled and pinned Alfred to the ground. Francis found his footing, taking in deep breaths.

"Calm down, Alfred!" Antonio cried, struggling with the American's right side.

"Ludwig, get some bandages! He's bleeding." Gilbert told his brother while trying to restrain Alfred's thrashing left arm and leg.

The stitches on his wrist tore.

X.X.X.X

After abruptly leaving the meeting, Alfred had to visit the hospital again to get his stitches redone. The doctors didn't even bother to ask how this happened, sensing that their patient was not in the mood to provide an explanation. He didn't bother returning to the conference room once his short operation was done, and instead went straight back home. By the time he trudged into the kitchen, a crow perched itself on the windowsill. It hopped from side to side, observing Alfred's every move on the other side of the glass. The American noticed the black bird after it cawed at him, but quickly lost interest as he turned around to find something to eat. It was a bit too late to have lunch, yet too early to eat dinner; but Alfred wanted something to do to forget about his actions. The crow spared Alfred one last look before taking off. While in the kitchen trying to fix himself an early dinner, Alfred heard footsteps in the attic right above him.

"Matthew, is that you?"

Upon reaching the staircase, something came tumbling down and landed next to Alfred's feet; a toy soldier. Alfred cautiously picked up the old antique and inspected it. There really wasn't anything wrong with the toy other than the wave of nostalgia it brings to the American. The face on the soldier smeared, its red coat faded and chipping off like dried flecks of blood. There was more noise at the top of the staircase, and Alfred found himself against the wall, soldier grasped tightly in his hand like a bludgeon weapon; only to find that another toy soldier has descended the stairs. However, unlike the other, this one had a blue coat on.

_I've never had one like this…_

Turning the wooden soldier over, Alfred noticed a red dot on the forehead of the figure followed by thin crimson cracks traveling down its marred face. He didn't make much of the imperfections on the soldiers and placed them both side-by-side on the small table next to the stairs. These items fell from the second floor, so surely someone was up there.

_But I made sure to lock the front door this time…a burglar?_

Alfred raced up the polished, wooden stairs, and saw that the door to his bedroom squeaked open. He hasn't been up there since he saw the apparition of a certain Russian, but Alfred had to push that fear to the back of his head at the moment. Deciding that hand-to-hand combat was his immediate and best choice against the intruder, the blonde kicked open the door to reveal no one. The door continued to swing weakly from its hinges while Alfred inspected his own room for any signs of breach. It was during this time that he suddenly felt pain on his right arm. Glancing at the limb, he gasped as he saw the leather of his bomber jacket rip apart to reveal a tremendous, searing scar running down from the shoulder to mid-forearm.

_It's not there, it's not there, it's just my imagination_ he chanted to himself.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Alfred covered his eyes with his hands, shaking his head violently and willing the hallucination on his arm to go away. Before his eyes were fully closed, Alfred saw a tall figure standing next to his bed through the gaps between his fingers. Eyes fully opened, Ivan met his gaze.

"I'll ask you again, Alfred, why did you free Toris?"

"What the hell are you doing in my house!" Alfred demanded.

Ivan gave him a fake smile. "The question here is, what are you doing in mine?"

"Huh?" Alfred then realized that he was standing upright instead of sitting on the bed, the walls cold and gray behind the Russian. Glass window and curtains replaced with wooden window shutters.

"Do I have to repeat myself?"

Alfred leered at him before answering. "Because I'm a hero," he laughed derisively. "It's my job to gah-!"

"Always with the same 'hero' shit," Ivan said darkly. His cold, gloved hand wrapped around Alfred's neck, pushing him into a wall and lifting him off the ground. "To tell you the truth, I never really liked you and your loud mouth…maybe it's about time I silenced you, da?"

Try as he might to grab a hold of Ivan's arm, Alfred's fingers ran right through the Russian. The same phenomenon happened when he tried to kick his chest – the brown boot phased right through Ivan's long coat and hung in the air.

"Lost and forgotten…these things hold no meaning to you at all. You have no idea what it feels like, da?" Ivan's iron grasp tightened around Alfred's neck. Despite the American's struggle, the Russian continued, his words colder than winter. "I want you to feel my pain…want you to regret ever letting Toris go like that…"

Alfred's vision started becoming hazy, the outer edges darkening. His movements slowed, limbs dropping to his sides.

"Good night, Alfred…" Ivan cooed almost lovingly. His head still ran with blood, dribbling down the lobes of his ears and dying his platinum-blonde hair a bright scarlet. And it may have been that Alfred was nauseated by the stench of decay and lack of air, but the whites of Ivan's eyes appeared to darken to imitate the night sky outside.

"Good night, and sweet dreams."


	7. 6th Night

Alfred rose from his bed, gaping for air. The window curtains he failed to draw close the other day shed bright sunlight into his cold bedroom. It was already the afternoon. Not wanting to go back to sleep, Alfred strode over to the vanity mirror stand to pick up his glasses, only to realize that he had them on the whole time.

_Was I really that tired that I slept with them on? _

Seeing as though there was nothing more to do there, Alfred was about to leave the vanity mirror before catching a glimpse of himself. There on his neck was a red imprint where Ivan placed his hand around it. But the mark disappeared as soon as Alfred took a second look at himself.

Regardless, Alfred headed downstairs where a voice message was left on his phone from Matthew. He called to inform him that because of yesterday's incident, everyone has come to the conclusion that they needed more time to cope with the recent deaths as well as Natalia's disappearance. And so, there would be no meetings held for the next week. The message was left after Alfred barged into his own bedroom; which meant that he was unconscious for more than half a day. This didn't really strike Alfred as shocking, but instead he was glad to finally have a decent sleep.

There was, however, the issue of what to do for the rest of the day. He still felt like he couldn't face Arthur just yet…not after what happened in the conference room. He didn't want to socialize with the others…and he found himself not wanting to go back to sleep either, for fear of the dream he knows he'll have. He had to find a way to keep himself awake, which led to Alfred deciding to clean the house. Passing by the two toy soldiers that were no longer there, the American searched for a bucket and mop.

Alfred started work in the kitchen, where spots of maple syrup still stuck to the floor after he pushed Matthew out the door abruptly. The crow returned to its place on the windowsill, its beady eyes staring at Alfred intensely as the blonde begun mopping the wooden floor boards. The American was ignorant of his fowl guest until it cawed at him and flew off. Alfred was only able to see the black tail feathers of the crow before reverting his attention to the floor, allowing the handle to fall into the mess. He wasn't cleaning at all. He was smearing a pool of blood around with the head of the mop. The cleaning instrument now saturated in scarlet, Alfred left it there to tend to the walls.

_It's not there…it's not there…_

With a wet cloth, Alfred proceeded to wiping the back hallway of mildew and old stains. It was strange, how grime and dirt can grow on the walls when left unattended…in addition to handprints and crimson streaks running along the hallway…

"NO! Nothing's there!" Alfred bellowed, dropping the cloth with a moist thud. "Just my imagination!" he said, screwing his eyes shut. Yanking blonde hair with one hand, he repeated "Just my…imagination...ha…haha…HAHAHA! Do you think this is fucking funny Ivan? I know what you're up to…so stop fucking hiding!" he slammed a fist into the crumbling cement. He knew someone was messing with him…that it wasn't just all in his head.

There was no reply except for the raging voice echoing in the lonely hall. The cloth looked like a lump of bleeding meat from where Alfred was standing, pumping crimson onto the floor. He continued yelling curses and insults as he left the dimly lit path. All the while, his fingers dug into and ran across the cement, a wake of blood following the American.

Emerging from the hallway, Alfred decided that he has done enough for one day, and that watching some mindless television would calm his nerves as well as keep him awake. The pale moon buried in clouds struggled to light the sky outside. Settling himself down on the couch, he used the remote to turn the television on, prepared to watch whatever came on first. There was him on the screen. For a moment, Alfred thought it was the glare that gave off his reflection, but as the seconds passed, nothing else came on. Behind the Alfred on the screen he can see blinking shutters and cold walls – the manor in his dreams. Subconsciously, Alfred's hand reached for the remote once more to change the channel, never taking his eyes off the sapphire ones staring back at him. The moment he pressed a random button, the Alfred in the television smiled at him warmly. When he opened his eyes from his grin, it revealed blue orbs floating in black holes. In addition to the white part of his eyes darkening, his neck had a deep, burning imprint on it while his left wrist and right arm hemorrhaged. For a while, neither of them said anything, Alfred blanched in horror while his screen counterpart continued to smile. But then the Alfred in the television pulled out a pistol from literally nowhere – the same one Alfred used when he tried to commit suicide – and moved back from the screen to reveal Arthur tied to a chair. At this, Alfred left his place on the couch and scrambled toward the television, getting as close to it as he could. The Englishman looked to Alfred with pleading eyes, mouth moving but no sound coming out. Did he already forget the sound of Arthur's voice? Regardless, the counterpart smirked, pleased to get the other American's full attention. Eyes now depraved, he licked the barrel of the pistol before pointing it at Arthur.

"You bastard! You'd better not-" Alfred shouted at the screen, rapidly pushing the "off" button on the television in hopes that by doing so it'll stop the atrocity being shown from happening. But the screen did not go blank and fade to black.

Alfred shot Arthur right between the eyes without hesitation, the sound of the gunshot silencing the other American screaming in hysteria and resonating in both the manor and living room. At that moment Alfred wanted to tear his eyes away from the monitor, but at the same time he was compelled to watch his counterpart's every move. His mouth remained agape, tongue unable to fit around any words.

"Alfred," he heard his own voice through the speakers. "Stop dreaming…and face…the reality…" Alfred motioned toward the manor behind him as well as the bleeding corpse of Arthur.

* * *

"I have to get out of here!" Alfred desperately tried to pry the entrance door and windows open with his fingers. He didn't know how and when he got here, but he knew he just had to find an escape. When neither routes refused to give, Alfred bashed his head against the metal door.

_A back door…there has to be another door!_

He has stayed here long enough to deduct that if he was able to get out of the mansion, he would wake up from this dream…nightmare more like it. There was no longer any point in staying here. Arthur was evidently dead. Alfred has seen enough to know that what he saw on his television screen was real and has happened. Abandoning the front, Alfred dashed into the corridors and further into the manor than he had before. Passing the room he found Toris in, he rounded another corner and was again confronted by an intersection. Left or right, it didn't matter which way he turned because the same question would rise again after a few doors down the hallway. Alfred lost hope fast, and even resorted to ramming the wall on the side of him to make a hole big enough for him to squeeze through. But no matter how many times he threw himself against the wall, and how brittle the old walls appeared, the damage dealt would slowly disappear. The cracks and dents turned to seamless paint before his eyes.

"I knew it…"

Snapping his head to the side, Natalia was staring at him with void eyes on the other end of the corridor. But before he could run a few yards in the opposite direction, she extracted the knife held precariously by her heart and threw it with pin-point accuracy. The blade landed in Alfred's left calf, sending the American toppling to the ground. On his stomach, Alfred could hear the clomping of boots grow louder. He reached to remove the knife with a nasty squishing sound, tossing it to the side where it clattered against the wooden floor. The action didn't stop the bleeding, and only made it worse as blood gushed through the open wound.

"I knew…I knew I would see you again…" Natalia was hovering over him, her rotting hands traveling up and caressing his cheeks.

Alfred froze from the contact, feeling frostbite spreading wherever the Belarusian touched him. The stabbing pain he was feeling in his leg intensified, but he couldn't move with the weight straddling on top of him. Natalia leaned down so close that whenever her weak heart pumped, blood splurted from the gash and onto his shirt. Rotting flaps of skin dangled from her chest area and rested on Alfred.

"Natalia…I'm not…Toris…" he struggled to say, his jaws cramping from the cold.

With blood streaming down her eyes, rolling off the tip of her eyelashes and landing onto Alfred's pale cheeks, Natalia proclaimed "Not even death will separate us dear brother!" Reaching over to retrieve the blood-slicked knife, Natalia slide it gently down Alfred's neck. "Now we can finally get married…forever…"

* * *

Alfred woke up with a start and burning pain on his left leg – the wound left by Natalia's knife was still there; blood warm like dishwater running down and collecting onto the floor. He was lying right in front of the television, its screen showing nothing but static. The grandfather clock indicated that it was four o' clock in the morning. Despite the crimson liquid pooling around him, Alfred didn't care. He knew it would go away, only to return to torment him. The blonde laid back down on the cold planks, staring at the white ceiling with arms stretched on either side of him. He knew he was in a battle against something intangible and incomprehensible in his subconscious. And he was losing.


	8. Dawn

**A/N: **I was trying to practice using basic literary elements in this fic...such as metaphors/symbolism, but I pretty much failed at it. So certain details, actions, and characters (i.e. the crow, Ivan's ghost, Arthur's ghost, etc.) may or may not have meaning to them. I'll just leave it to you guys to figure it out, don't want to spoil the fun after all.

* * *

He woke up to the heady smell of blood. His blood.

_Not yet…I still want to sleep…_

Alfred was about to close his eyes again when he noticed the color leeching out of his living room and that he was in a hallway.

_These bloodstains…this was the exact same place I had been last night when-_

His thoughts were stopped when he once again heard weeping, followed by a blood-drenched Natalia. Her face was still buried by her hands and unaware of how close she was to her target. Alfred really didn't care what happened to him anymore at this point, but his body instinctively got up from the floor. After taking a few steps to what he thought was the way out, a pain-induced scream ripped from his throat when the wounds on his arms and leg bursted open all at the same time. He also felt something tightening itself around his neck. The scream reached Natalia's ears, and she once again looked at Alfred with an unusual smile plastered onto her face.

"There you are…" she sighed with relief.

With a bloody hand on the wall as support, Alfred hobbled faster to turn a corner, an anxious Natalia close behind him.

"Wait brother…let's get married…married…MARRIED!" the raspy voice rang, as if Natalia was right next to him.

For some reason, the corridors were shorter than Alfred had remembered, the exit even closer than he expected. He dashed right across the hall and barged through the rusty backdoors of the manor.

Alfred sat up from the couch. He breathed out a sigh of relief of his own even though his limbs and neck still throbbed with pain. Pale sunlight shown through the window into the living room – it was early morning.

But the weeping didn't stop.

At his right, Natalia was standing there next to the couch. The smell of death was everywhere.

"WHAT?-" Alfred slapped his hand over his mouth, fully knowing what the figure standing next to him would do if she heard him.

"Dear brother, please stop this foolishness…after all I did to see you again…" she cooed while blood flowed from her eyes as if it had no end.

"For the last time, I'm not Ivan!" Alfred shouted back as he ran toward the kitchen and out the front door, only to collide into Matthew when he swung the door open.

"Thank God! Matthew, you have to help me! She's coming to get me!" Alfred babbled while struggling to get up.

Matthew looked behind his brother, flabbergasted, but held onto Alfred's shoulders tightly. The kitchen and living room beyond it was empty.

"I have to get out of this house…!" Alfred's blue eyes widened with dementia, clawing at Matthew's coat. After glancing back into the house, Alfred faced his brother again with glasses askew on his face. "I have to get out of here!"

"C-calm down, Alfred," with much effort, Matthew forced the American back into the kitchen and onto a chair. He quickly turned to lock the front door in a feeble attempt to prevent escape.

But Alfred got up once more, scrambling towards the door and pulling the doorknob in panic. When turning the knob whichever way didn't work, he began to rake his fingers across the wood like a dog would when it wanted to go outside.

Shell-shocked by the outlandish behavior Alfred was displaying, Matthew pulled him away from the door once more. "Damn it Alfred! Do I have to tie you down in a chair? There's no one inside your house besides the two of us!" Matthew said over the whimpering sounds his brother was making, shaking the American almost violently. He pushed Alfred back into his seat, never taking his amethyst eyes off him while he poured a cup of coffee and openly dropped an extra amount of anti-depressants into the brew. The American looked too delirious to even notice anyways.

_Why is he getting worse?_

"Here, drink this…it'll help calm your nerves," Matthew ordered, shoving the mug into Alfred's face to get his attention.

Alfred took the cup with trembling hands, slowly bringing it to his lips and sipping the coffee as if he was trying to hold the substance down before swallowing. Matthew watched him carefully over his glasses. After a tense silence, Alfred's sapphire eyes lost its maniacal look. He lowered the mug and gave his brother a shaky 'thanks'.

"I knew I should have stayed to look after you…" Matthew said more to himself than the other in the kitchen. "You haven't eaten since I was gone, have you?"

Alfred didn't make any gesture of answering, but it was evident he wasn't by his thinning frame.

"After what happened at the meeting…I really thought you needed time for yourself…but…who did you see this time?" he asked when he realized he was rambling.

"Natalia…" Alfred answered back, fixating on what was left of the dark liquid in his cup.

"We still haven't found her body yet," Matthew informed. "Eh, why is there a mop in the middle of the kitchen?" the Canadian finally noticed.

"Tried to clean house…"

Matthew sighed heavily and picked up the cleaning tool. "Anywhere else?"

"Back hallway."

"Your dreams…they aren't real. Get that through your head," the Canadian said before leaving the kitchen to turn off the television still showing static in the living room.

"But what's a dream…and what's reality?" Alfred asked under his breath.

X.X.X.X

For the rest of the afternoon, Alfred sat frigid on the far side of the couch closest to the door. He thought he'd face the window to await his guest. But the crow never came to visit. Once in a while, he noticed Matthew peeping at him from the doorframe, making sure he didn't snap all of a sudden. He didn't, and calmly walked up the stairs to his bedroom to look at himself in the mirror. Alfred started doing this more often; not because he was narcissistic, but because he had to reassure himself that there was nothing on him…that it was just a hallucination. When he looked into the vanity mirror, there was him. Not a wound on his face or neck, and a pair of emerald eyes staring at him.

"Arthur?" Alfred whirled around to see that the Englishman was not there. He was met with Ivan's reflection instead of his own when he turned back to the mirror.

Ivan gave him his usual creepy smile before asking "Looking for someone?"

"I told you to leave Arthur out of this!" he spat vindictively.

"Huh? What are you talking about?" the Russian asked archly through gritted teeth as he continued to smile.

"Don't fuck with me! You killed him!"

"Well you see, you took Toris from me. So I thought I'd take Arthur from you, sounds fair da?" he said evenly. Ivan then raised a finger to touch the exposed flesh around his head. Blood still leaked from the hole in his skull as he tapped his head in thought.

Alfred just stood there in front of the mirror, glaring in disdain at Ivan's reflection. He was enraged beyond words at the moment.

"Ah!" Ivan gasped after a few seconds. He then pointed a crimson finger at the person on the other side of the mirror. "But wasn't it you who killed him?"

It took Alfred a moment to understand what was just said. But when he understood the accusation against him, his brows furrowed in frustration and doubt. "I…I didn't kill him! It wasn't me on that TV screen who pulled the trigger…"

Ivan's violet eyes gleamed with mischief. "I wasn't talking about that…I was talking about that night when you two were-"

"Shut up! How did you know?" Alfred demanded, slamming his fists onto the stand.

"You knew he was drunk…you really shouldn't have let him drive," Ivan asserted, completely ignoring Alfred's question.

"It was an accident! No one could have seen it coming…" he weakly retorted.

"You did."

"I didn't! Otherwise I wouldn't have…"

"But you did."

"I thought I told you to shut the fuck up!" Alfred broke the mirror with his right fist, sending shards flying into the air. But even with Ivan's image distorted and cracked, his menacing "kol" faintly resonated in the room.

It was just bad luck that Matthew came to the scene a bit too late. He had heard Alfred's voice upstairs in the hallway when he picked up a dry hand-cloth abandoned on the ground. But by the time he opened the door to his brother's bedroom, said brother has already launched his fist into the mirror. Now, Alfred was on his knees, the shards piercing his skin; but he was more focused on the broken mirror than his hand. He was hyperventilating, and it was at this moment that Matthew realized how broken Alfred was…and how helpless he was for not being able to do anything for his brother.

* * *

Alfred willed himself to sleep despite the fear still lurking deep within his heart. As he expected, he was in the manor. As expected, the backdoor was right in front of him. But he made no effort to open it.

He was tired…so tired…

Lying down on the cold, splintered wood of the floorboards, he stared heavenwards at the decrepit ceiling above him. Closing his dull blue eyes, he willingly took in the cold air surrounding and suffocating him. There were many questions left unanswered…such as why he was mired in the affairs of the dead? But the answers no longer mattered…

_This is where I belong…_

His spirit thoroughly broken, Alfred waited for any entity to pass him by and finish him off.

_I will find peace here…in my dreams…_

And peace he found.

No one interrupted his slumber…until he heard faint footsteps approaching him. Alfred opened one eye by a crack to get a glimpse of his executioner. But the owner of the footfalls kept on walking, ignoring the American. The metal doors creaked open, allowing a gust of frost to bite into Alfred as a flash of green and blonde stepped into the snow outside. "Ar…thur…" Alfred mumbled almost to himself. He stayed where he was on the ground, the doors swung wide open. Alfred was about to close his eyes once more when realization dawned on him. "Arthur…Arthur!" he blurted out, as if the name was familiar to him all of a sudden. Wasn't he the reason why he came here in the first place? The reason why he stayed in this hellhole?

Quickly picking himself up, he ran out to chase down the Englishman. As his boots crunched over the fresh-fallen snow, Alfred was at the backyard of the manor. There, it was evident that someone was trying to grow sunflowers, but they all froze over in the tundra, clumps of ice and snow hanging from withered leaves and petals or clinging on blackened stems. There was Arthur, his back still towards the American. "I won't let you leave me this time!" Alfred had to holler, for a blizzard suddenly came over the scene. His whole body continued to ache, and every time he took a breath of the biting cold air, it got harder to breathe. But he moved forward, inching closer to his target with each half-step he took. His left calf as well as his wrist continued to bleed profusely, the lacerations on both limbs exposed to the unrelenting cold. The gash on his right arm burned in contrast to the surrounding. "I'm going with you!" he cried, the blizzard so strong that he couldn't see Arthur's knee-high boots.

At this, the Englishman appeared to stop walking, his back still to Alfred. When they were only a yard apart, Arthur began to turn around. But at the blink of an eye, the green material of his uniform turned red. The starless sky remained black, but the crimson moon glared down on Alfred, shedding pale, scarlet light.

"N…no…" Alfred stammered. Eyes wide with disbelief, he looked down to his hands, only to find a musket resting in them. "What's happening?"

The departed's eyes went from stoic to baleful and without warning lunged at the American.

Startled at the sudden movement, Alfred took a step back. His chest was beginning to tighten; devastated when the figure he was vying to catch up to was trying to kill him. "I don't want this," his voice floated away for a second. He threw his musket as far away from himself as he could. "Arthur, do you hate me that much?"

Arthur gave no verbal reply. With his bayonet, he speared Alfred's right leg when the American was sluggishly trying to retreat.

Along with a scream, fresh blood began to well out from the new wound, lapped up by the pure snow. With all of his limbs injured and rendered useless, Alfred kneeled into the snow. "I'm sorry,"

Arthur pointed his musket at Alfred.

"…Go ahead…shoot me…this is my punishment…" his voice floated through the lifeless trees. He then looked down to the red slush around him, not daring to meet glaring green eyes.

Arthur took aim, nothing more was said. The blizzard continued to howl all around them. "…Like I can actually shoot you…idiot…" the deceased finally spoke for the first time since his arrival here. Throwing down his own musket into the snow, he then crouched down to Alfred's height.

"I'm so sorry…" Alfred repeated, not bothering to look up at Arthur. "You weren't supposed to die that day…it was my fault…"

"It wasn't your fault," Arthur said gently, placing a comforting hand onto the American's shoulder. When Alfred slowly shook his head, clearly in denial, he continued "Only when one is forgotten is he truly dead,"

Alfred snapped his head up after hearing this, staring quizzically into Arthur's eyes. He tried to say something, but choked on his own tears.

Arthur gave him a small smile and loose hug before explaining. "As long as you go on living, a part of me will continue to live on with you."

Alfred spoke up "Arthur, I-" but was cut off by a finger gently placed over his lips.

"Shh, I know Alfred. I feel the same way." He then got up from the snow and turned to leave. Arthur kept walking, never looking back until the blizzard swallowed him out of view. This time, it was he who walked away from the battlefield, with Alfred left behind. This time, it was Alfred who was left in tears. But his tears were not those of bitterness or sorrow.

Neither of them said goodbye. Because it wasn't.


	9. Day

**A/N:** Huh, there's a moral to be learned here...somewhere...Anyways, here we are, the last chapter. It's more like an epilogue though. I just want to take this time to thank all of you who read, reviewed, alerted, and faved this fic. And to those who noticed certain details in the fic, you guys are awesome! Doh . I forgot to say happy birthday to Switzerland yesterday. I'm sorry if I made Ivan look like the bad guy in this fic, but he really isn't I swear!

* * *

Alfred woke up to the early morning sun, feeling lighter than before. His bed felt warmer in comparison to the nights before. Hesitantly, he looked at his arms, and aside from the stitches that were healing nicely, there was only unblemished skin. From the window, sunlight streamed steadily through. The crow never returned. Alfred scanned across his bedroom from where he was until his eyes landed on a certain wall – there was still the bullet hole.

_I should really get that fixed soon…_he reminded himself.

Slowly but surely, Alfred walked to the bathroom to look into the mirror; seeing as though the one in his room was still broken.

_Another thing that needs fixing…_

When Alfred peered into the mirror, he saw himself and only himself, smiling. When he went down the stairs, Matthew was already going up half-way, making sure that the American made it through the night. He had been sleeping on the couch, checking up on Alfred every couple hours until he ultimately fell asleep himself.

"Oh Alfred, you're awake?" the Canadian asked cautiously, looking over his brother. "Did something happen?"

"Nope! I just think that I'm ready to visit Arthur now," Alfred beamed. And although it wasn't as wide as it used to be, his grin was enough to convince the Canadian.

"Okay, we'll get something to eat after then," he compromised.

"Great! I'll drive," Alfred said before rushing past his brother to exit through the front door.

Before leaving the house, Matthew threw away an empty bottle of pills.

_He'll be alright_

X.X.X.X

The ride to the cemetery was unusually casual. Alfred was striking conversation with Matthew, and although the Canadian would sometimes stare warily at the road, the other blond was sane enough to drive properly. Just before the rusty gates of the cemetery, the two saw Francis walk out of the necropolis. Alfred sped up to catch up to the Frenchman to apologize for what he did at the meeting. Francis was a bit shocked at what the American was telling him, but easily forgave him and told him to be strong before leaving.

Arthur's grave was near the back of the cemetery, but along the way, Alfred stopped at Toris's resting place. As always, Feliks made it there before the twins. When Alfred approached the grave, he gingerly placed rues from the flower store he stopped by next to the corn poppies already on the stone monument.

"Hey Alfred," Feliks spoke up after the three had a moment of silence to pay their respects. "I had a dream just the other night,"

"Oh? And what did you dream of?"

"It's weird…but, like, I saw Toris…" the Pole said, looking at his fingernails in thought. "He told me not to worry, and that he's totally alright,"

"Were there any scars on him…?" Alfred had to ask. "Any wounds on his neck or face?"

"Are you like, still going on about that? He looked fine," Feliks answered. "Oh! And he asked me," turning his green eyes toward Alfred. "To tell you 'thank you',"

At this, Alfred was a bit taken aback, but then gave a knowing smile.

As he and Matthew continued to go deeper into the cemetery, Feliks remained and kneeled down to shift the newly placed floral into a neat arrangement, uttering "You made it out of the snow, and into the field of rye."

Once a few feet from the Englishman's grave, Matthew stayed back a little to give Alfred some space. With a bouquet of roses in his hands, Alfred tried his hardest to keep the tears from falling. "H-hey Arthur," he started, his voice slightly cracking. "You…must think I'm a real git for not visiting your grave for almost a week now eh?" he chuckled humorlessly, a tear slipping down his cheek. "...Thank you…for everything…" Placing the red roses down onto the tombstone next to the white lilies, Alfred found that he could say no more, his throat closed around sobs. He stiffened when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he was met with violet eyes.

Matthew curtly nodded at him, his eyes telling Alfred that he could take as long as he wanted.

But the blond shook his head. "There's still one more I want to visit," Alfred said before sparing one last look at Arthur.

At the farthest corner of the necropolis rested Ivan Braginski. When Alfred and Matthew reached the area, Katyusha smiled at them gratefully and left. Although Natalia's body was never found, out of the Ukrainian's request, a tombstone was set for her beside her brother. Not expecting the new addition, Alfred had to split the bundle of sunflowers he carried and placed half on each of the gravestone.

"Eh? Alfred…why?" Matthew questioned the American's action. "I thought that…"

"You know Matthew," Alfred started. "I think what's worse than death, is being forgotten afterwards…Ivan and Natalia don't deserve that…"

The blond was quiet after Alfred gave him his reply, contemplating over what he just said.

"By the way Matthew, thanks for looking after me," he said suddenly.

The Canadian slightly blushed from being appreciated and noticed for his efforts. "I-it was nothing…somebody had to watch over you," he laughed sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

"If only they were as lucky as I was…" Alfred waved a hand to Ivan's and Natalia's grave.

Matthew was shocked at how mature his brother sounded, but this observation was cut off when Alfred spun him around towards the exit.

"I'm hungry! Let's go get a hamburger somewhere!"


End file.
